I lost all interest in sex after I died.
Even worse luck, I still had my appetite. After all those years of counting calories, you figure at least death will put an end to it, you know what I mean?
I'd always said that life wasn't fair, but trust me, it's got nothing on death.
We lived in Scottsdale until Mamie passed away. 44 years we were together. All right, so it wasn't a perfect marriage, but it's not like I cheated. "Cheat" is such an unflattering word. I just kind of fooled around a little, and believe me, it was for the noblest of reasons: to take the sexual pressure off her (though she never quite saw it that way). It's amazing how blind women can be about essentially gallant motives.
And I didn't drink all that much. I mean, how many times can one man apologize for driving the Buick through the back of the garage and into the swimming pool? And we were able to paint over all that stuff she swears I drew on the living room wall (though to this day I don't remember a thing). I still don't know how they got away with canceling our house insurance; I always paid the premiums on time. Well, most of 'em, anyway.
Anyway, I'll tell you this much: If I'd known the afterlife was just going to be a continuation of August in Arizona, I'd have lived a cleaner life. Or gotten more used to Arizona.
I always meant to move back East after I lost her, but with one thing and another I never got around to it. (Especially after Vinny and Guido told me what would happen if I left before I paid Big Solly what I owed him.)
And now, here I was, stuck on the Styx, shvitzing like a ditch digger.
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